


What Better Place to Seduce Someone Than an Antique Mall Right Next to a Cow Skull

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [13]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Lilith reaches out to Hilda hoping for a reconciliation.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	What Better Place to Seduce Someone Than an Antique Mall Right Next to a Cow Skull

Hilda’s pulled her early ‘70s Ranchero up to the front of the Academy, windows down and eight-track deck blasting Linda Ronstadt, and is waiting for Zelda to finish up and come out to go home.

These past weeks she’s been busy tending to the needs of the coven, but she’s missed the distractions Mary—Lilith, she reminds herself for what feels like the 4000th time—had provided her from her own personal family miseries. She’s tried a few different outlets, but getting this old gal running again has proved the most satisfying.

There’s something to be said for looking at something broken and seeing how to fix it and then being able to implement those improvements. There are so many things she knows exactly how to fix but the fixee refuses to capitulate. An old car, however, is usually unable to protest, allows itself to be ministered to through sweat and oil and forearms flexing turning wrenches. New parts or salvaged parts dropping in to fill holes, spliced in wherever needed and acting just as they should to do their respective duties in a fully mechanical process.

No guilt or pride or anxiety or fear or sense of obligation to tiptoe around. 

There’s also no lying, either active or by omission. You’re either a Ranchero or an El Camino or a Sprint. And that’s that.

Zelda walks out of the heavy double doors, still with her imperious posture of head mistress. She pauses on the steps and drags disapproving-looking eyes over the length of the car.

They hadn’t arrived here together this morning. Hilda had wanted to finish loading the dishwasher and Zelda had gotten impatient, wanting to finish some marking in her office before classes were to begin, and had finally just teleported.

Hilda turns down the radio and motions for Zelda to hop in.

Zelda visibly stiffens, huffs, says,

“I’ll take the next one.”

Hilda turns the radio all the way off, rolls her eyes, says,

“All the students have already gone. You don’t have to pretend to be too good for this car.”

Zelda rolls her eyes as well and takes the three steps toward the passenger side, says in a low voice,

“However egregious an eyesore this contraption may be, it’s not the reason I don’t want to be seen with you just now.” 

Zelda throws her head back, and her arms go rigid and palms up. Hilda knows she’s about to start the teleportation incantation. Hilda shouts,

“Stop that! Get in this car and talk to me!”

Zelda’s posture remains the same, but she says,

“Why would you want to talk to some needling old hag?”

Hilda doesn’t know what she’s on about, but she says,

“You know I like talking to a variety of different people.”

Zelda snaps her head back to level, looks at her:

“You’re not even going to deny writing me as a needling old hag, then?”

Hilda scrunches her brow, tries to piece together the information she’s been given and what she’s supposed to already know.

She stumbles upon an obscure thought: she’d written an erotic novella loosely based on her exploits with Lilith in which her over-the-top portrayal of a Zelda-like character had appeared as a comedic foil/light antagonist. She’d done it all good-naturedly, had riddled it with inside jokes. And as soon as she’d gigglingly shared the unedited manuscript with her pal and intermittent boss Cerberus, she’d abandoned it, forgotten it, and had moved on to different distracting ventures. 

Fictionalizing her experiences had been a certain kind of outlet, but ultimately writing had tended to exacerbate her over-thinking rather than soothe her. So she’d turned to the Ranchero. Safer. Less thought. Or at least a different kind of thought. A more diverting kind of thought that didn’t involve motivations and interactions.

Surely Zelda hadn’t scoured her personal computer and found it somehow. Zelda is intellectually curious but typically not a snoop.

“I haven’t the faintest what you’re referring to,” Hilda says finally. “But we’ve got a half hour yet on happy hour for cherry limeades at that drive-in you like.”

They stare at each other another second, and Zelda opens the passenger door, slides in with a grunt and a huff:

“Your treat.”

“Of course,” Hilda says.

Hilda’s sipping her butterscotch malt, and Zelda’s twisting the straw on her cherry limeade round and round and then saying,

“I understand but I also don’t. I know there’s been plenty of animosity between us. And I’ve certainly killed you for petty reasons. But to publicly denounce me like this? It’s a little cruel, sister.”

Hilda places her malt on the dash and then carefully takes Zelda’s hand.

“I could address the issue better if I had the details,” Hilda says.

Zelda’s eyelashes flutter, and she looks out the window toward the Suburban in the next stall over. She says,

“Your lurid little book is all the rage at the Academy. The students can’t get enough of ‘The Outrageous Desires of the Pot and the Kettle’ by ‘Helga Stillwell.’” 

Hilda lets this wash over her. And then suddenly sort of gets it:

“I never meant it for publication! I was just messing around, trying to work through some thoughts and feelings! Dr. Cee must have misinterpreted—”

Zelda cuts her off with a cutting look, says,

“Fuck and a half. Haven’t I always advised you against befriending mortals?”

“In point of fact, you’ve always advised me against befriending anyone but you,” Hilda says.

Zelda shrugs, says,

“Sounds like good advice to me.”

xxx

Hellscape. Red and yellow and orange. A certain specific kind of unearthly fire.

Heat and light and cold and darkness. Juxtapositions, opposites. Two sides of a same coin grinding against each other like mismatched cogs forever fated to lose more teeth in the process of their continuous revolutions—each in its own mechanized misery enacting misery upon unfortunate souls.

The shadow image of Caliban’s glistening abs behind everyone’s eyes.

The Unholy Regalia. A challenge.

Sabrina, Queen of Hell by birthright—nepotism rather than ability or experience—prepares, is prepared, is preparing to be prepared. And Lilith is there by her side, not as Queen of Hell as she ought to be by ability and experience but as reluctant Regent, preparing to prepare someone else.

Sabrina is about to set off.

But Lilith stills her suddenly, says, 

“Is your Aunt Hilda well?”

“Yeah I guess,” Sabrina says. “What’s it to you?”

“Why are you acting like you don’t know?” Lilith says.

“Know what?” Sabrina says.

Lilith stares at Sabrina’s blank face, laughs humorlessly, says,

“You caught us making out in the solarium. Twice.”

Sabrina shrugs, and Lilith sighs, mutters,

“Hellfire you’re a narcissist.” And then full voice, “Could you deliver a letter to her from me?” 

“Yeah I guess,” Sabrina says again.

“It’s imperative that you be discreet about it,” Lilith says. “You do know what ‘imperative’ and ‘discreet’ mean, don’t you?” Sabrina rolls her eyes, says,

“Miss Wardwell is a very good English teacher.”

xxx

Hilda is at the stove. She’s setting out ingredients to make breakfast. She’s got her finger on the trigger of the spray extra virgin olive oil when she sees the envelope draped over the back burner.

She opens it and reads it:

“Emergency.”

It’s Lilith as Mary Wardwell’s scrawling cursive. Below is an address and a date and time.

She’s suspicious about the urgency of the emergency. She’s suspicious it’s not an emergency at all. But it’s the first communication from Lilith she’s received, so perhaps she should wait to cast her as the boy who cried wolf.

Zelda, as new High Priestess, has instituted nightly prayers to this entity, but she’s found herself unable to participate fully, can’t wrap her brain or heart around the idea that a woman she’d Turkish oil wrestled, a woman who had very obviously pretended a headache because she had been too scared to ride the spider at the county fair but was too proud to admit that, a woman who had hosed down a Bingo parlor parking lot on a very cold evening so she could watch all the old ladies coming out when it closed an hour later “figure skate” on the makeshift rink is anybody who could grant the kinds of prayers they’re praying.

Maybe she’ll warm up to it in time; as they say, a prophet is not without honor except in his own town. And in this case, Chief Demon of the Netherrealm is not without honor except with the woman she’d been fucking when she was supervising the apocalypse while impersonating a schoolteacher.

She’d said she’d be available for an emergency. And she’d meant it. Although she doesn’t know what kind of emergency in which the Queen of Hell would require her assistance. That had been a good part of why she’d said it in the first place: due diligence and plausible deniability. Lilith had been untruthful to her the whole time they’d been having relations. It was all necessary lies from a certain perspective, but Hilda can’t help but feel used to some extent. But even through her personal hurt, she still does care about Lilith’s well-being.

So she feels compelled to appear at this emergency.

The date is today and the time is in a few hours, so she finishes making breakfast. A little sullen and a little excited and a little worried.

Hilda follows her phone’s gps to an antique mall in Riverdale. Not many cars in the parking lot, and there’s no obvious signs of distress anywhere.

So far it doesn’t feel much like an emergency. She tries to keep an open mind.

She’s milling around at some woolen Korean War era uniforms on a tidy rack when there’s a tug at the inside of her elbow.

A preternaturally hot presence at her side, and she’s being led through an incomprehensible maze of booths.

Up a half staircase onto a cluttered landing.

The hot presence is no longer there. But there’s a business envelope with her name on it propped up against a bleached cow skull. Hilda opens the envelope, reads,

“I can’t be in your realm for long. But it’d be a shame if this typewriter didn’t get refurbished. However… I can sustain a physical form longer if I’m explicitly summoned…”

Hilda scans her surroundings. She’s looking for Lilith but she’s also looking for other points of interest in this loft. There’s a Hammond typewriter circa 1915 that catches her gaze. The machine is dilapidated and rusty and waterlogged looking.

But if one has the right tools, almost nothing is beyond repair.

Surely there’s more to it than this, though. Maybe they need to be face to face to communicate whatever horrible thing it is that has forced Lilith to seek her aid.

She checks her surroundings and then whispers,

“Lilith, I summon you.”

She’s dragging her thumb through the fringe on a leather vest on the rack nearest to her as she waits, a little nervous now. It doesn’t take long: a smell of sulfur, a puff of smoke, and Mary Wardwell’s body is standing in front of her.

“Huh. I’d thought you would’ve reverted to your true form,” Hilda says.

“You know first hand just what kinds of wonderful things this particular form is capable of.”

Hilda clicks her tongue. What a distasteful thing to say, considering she’s probably not asked permission to mess around with it. Although a very true thing. She misses that form very much, in fact. Has avoided school events so she doesn’t have to accidentally see Mary in passing and yearn and wonder and wish and ultimately upset herself.

“Miss Wardwell isn’t in some kind of disembodied coma in purgatory or somewhere while you use her body, is she?”

“No. She has full use of her faculties. I’m merely projecting her body.”

“I see,” Hilda says, but she doesn’t exactly get it. She drops it in favor of, “Is there more to this emergency than rescuing this typewriter, then?” Hilda finally manages to scoff.

Lilith leans in and almost looks vulnerable as she slides her fingers down the lapel of Hilda’s jacket, says,

“I had to find some way to get you to summon me. I—” She blinks a few times and straightens her posture, effects confidence and flippancy. “It’s rather a sausage fest in Hell. They’re all such dullards down there, and besides, I prefer female companionship.”

“The emergency is that you’re bored and lonely?”

“Isn’t that emergency enough?” Lilith says, that almost vulnerability back in her face briefly. Hilda wants to give in, wants to embrace her, have fun with her again. But there’s a lot of rage inside her, too. A lot of confusion. A lot of pain. She says,

“And you think you can just blow back into town, manipulate me into summoning you, and just carry on like nothing happened? Start a little renovation project together? Maybe possess someone once in a while so you can get me into bed? Pretend for a few hours that you’re not the new deity of our coven? Oh wait, you’re already doing that last one! As far as I can tell, none of our prayers have been answered! Maybe the boys downstairs aren’t so boring as you’ve implied!”

Lilith blinks a few times at this, has staggered back a pace. But then she recovers herself, says low and smug,

“For the record, I don’t strictly need to possess a human body for that. Would you like me to prove it?” She looks Hilda up and down and takes the slider of the zipper of Hilda’s jacket between her index finger and thumb. She raises her eyebrows in question.

Hilda swallows and then bats her hand away, says,

“It shouldn’t surprise me that that’s the only thing I said you would deign to address.”

Lilith glides her tongue over her top teeth, sighs, says,

“If you want the truth. It’s that there’s a lot of turmoil in Hell right now. There’s a lot I’m dealing with in house—a lot more politics and bureaucracy than you might suspect. I’d love to answer prayers if I were able. And I know you’ll think this is a line, but I know I could be more effective in everything I’m trying to do if I could have the comfort of being with you sometimes.”

Hilda listens and weighs all this against her own perceptions of events. It sounds good, but,

“You’ve always known just what to say to me to get me to do what you want.”

Lilith smiles a half smile, snakes a hand around Hilda’s waist, says,

“I am so very sorry about how everything’s turned out. I can’t really make it up to you, but I want to try.” She presses closer, supernaturally hot fingertips digging in at Hilda’s obliques. “I noticed you’ve got your Ranchero running. Plenty of room in that bed…”

Hilda’s having trouble remaining logical and angry with Lilith so close to her, purring at her and touching her. Maybe Lilith’s telling the truth. Maybe Lilith really does need her in order to best perform her various duties. Maybe she’s always been this kind of support staff attaché. And maybe she likes that.

The Ranchero is parked in a clearing deep in the woods between Riverdale and Greendale, idling as the eight track deck plays some cheesy Guy Lombardo.

Hilda and Lilith lock eyes, and Lilith reaches over to cut the engine.

Lilith opens her door, exits.

Hilda joins her in the Ranchero’s spacious bed.

They kiss. Hilda’s on top, and it’s all fluttering touches, deep tongues. Ardent. Passionate. They fit together and they match each other.

Hilda’s still tentative, though. As much as she wants Lilith, she doesn’t know whether this is right or good for her. Is it healthy to immediately resume banging the deceitful deity of one’s sister’s church just because she’s fed one some pretty words out of a pretty mouth, a mouth that she stole from someone else?

She stops abruptly and sits up on her knees.

“Maybe we ought to just focus on the typewriter for now,” Hilda says.

Lilith runs a hand through her hair, huffs,

“I suppose I should be happy with whatever you’re willing to give me.”

“I suppose you should. And maybe don’t come round unless I’m the only one home? I don’t want to have to explain anything.”

“You don’t want to have to explain anything to your family, or you don’t want to have to explain anything to yourself?” Lilith says.

“You’re pressing your luck, love.”

“Fine. Tuesday evening?”

“Should work for me. Do you eat when you’re like this?”

Lilith smirks. Hilda smacks her lightly on the shoulder, says,

“I won’t bother cooking, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know these are usually exclusively from Hilda’s POV, but I really wanted that scene in Hell, so I tried to be as objective about it as possible.
> 
> Also that Buxom and the Beast plot thread that appeared for one second and then disappeared for the rest of the season was so ludicrous. So I rewrote it to fit with both this series and my (correct) interpretation of the characters.
> 
> Oh and yes, neither Sabrina nor Lilith have decided it prudent to tell Hilda or anyone else real about the Actual situation of Sabrina’s queenship. It’s stupid, but I did enjoy that bit of drama and feel there’s potential in it.


End file.
